


Mission Unsuccessful

by SoftlyTea



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Blindfolds, Choking, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Face Slapping, I'm Sorry, I'm not quite sure what happened here, Interrogation, Light Masochism, Non-Consensual Bondage, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Content, Sexual Torture, Thalmor, Torture, Vaginal Fingering, love of giving oral anyway, slight elements of body worship?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-08-07 05:31:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7702537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoftlyTea/pseuds/SoftlyTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imani wants a map.<br/>Ancarion wants Imani. Or at least, just a taste.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mission Unsuccessful

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imdex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imdex/gifts).



> Bethesda owns all except Imani, who belongs to the lovely Imdex.
> 
> The hardest thing about this story was deciding whether it needed the rape/non-con warning on it. 
> 
> In case you didn't read the tags, please be aware that this story contains: Extremely dubious consent, non-consensual bondage, face slapping, choking, orgasm denial as torture. 
> 
> (And a happy ending for all involved.)

Something is very wrong.

You don't get to a point in your life where you can wear Nightingale armour, lead the most notorious group of kleptomaniacs in all Skyrim, or relieve Justiciar Commanders of their sweetrolls (a fine moment, if highly ill-advised), without developing exceptional intuition.

And Imani always, always listens to her intuition, but it seems even hers has failed her today. Had it not, she would not be here, bound, gagged, blindfolded, and alone. And this feels very wrong indeed.

Imani whimpers in spite of herself - not, she thinks, that there is anyone around to hear it.

 

\--

 

Ancarion takes a sip of wine and returns the glass carefully, silently, to the table.

He savours the fine taste and observes his handiwork with a smile. Not even this troublesome little Breton would be able to get out of those knots. He knows this from experience; she'd tried hard enough, the moment she had regained consciousness. It had made quite the appealing sight, in fact - as had the way she'd snarled around the leather he'd gagged her with. He feels almost sorry to have blindfolded her. She did have such interesting eyes - or at least, they had appeared to be, fixed wide on him in shocked fury just as he had drawn his fist back to knock her out...

And then there was that pathetic little whimper. _Beautiful._ He is rather enjoying watching the fight go out of her, although he suspects it will be back the moment he makes his presence known. All the more reason to savour the anticipation.

He ignores the growing heated ache in his loins and takes another sip of wine, allowing his gaze to wander.

One could scarcely improve on perfection, but those ropes do rather accentuate it, he thinks.

She whimpers again and wriggles half-heartedly, but it is as if she knows full well that there is no escape that way.

She'll be desperate, then. Good.

He takes that ineffectual little wriggle as his cue. He licks his lips, takes a breath, and prepares himself to shatter her naive little illusions of solitude.

 

-

 

"Comfortable?”

The effect is instant and deeply pleasing. Every muscle in her body tenses against the ropes. He can practically _taste_ her fear and surprise as her head turns this way and that, attempting to localize the sound of his voice, desperately reaching for even the slightest clue that will help her to make sense of her predicament.

'What's the matter, little one?' He gets to his feet and approaches her, smiling as her face snaps round to face him. 'Perhaps you're not used to being at the mercy of another. Is that it? Thought you could sneak onto my ship, assault my crew, and - what? Put me in the same position you are in now?'

Imani tenses still further as his heavy footsteps grow closer and stop. By her reckoning, he is just a couple of feet in front of her.

_Calm down, calm down, calm down…_

'I wonder, little human. What would you have done to me? What did you want?'

He watches in amusement as the Breton strains against the bindings once more.

'No matter. I'm sure I'll find out. It doesn't do to rush these things, however, especially not when one's unexpected guest is quite as... entertaining... as you. I am sure we can come to some sort of an understanding, would you not agree?'

Imani's response is muffled by the gag, but its colourful sentiment is unmistakable.

'Oh! I do apologise. You cannot possibly answer my questions with your mouth full, now can you? Allow me.'

Imani holds her breath as the chill of a blade assaults her cheek, but her fears are unfounded. The tension of the leather breaks, leaving the gag hanging uselessly from her clenched teeth.

'Spit it out, there's a good girl.'

In happier times, Imani would have bitten out some cutting remark about that not being what they usually said, but fear silences her now. The ache from the blow to her head has been slowly receding, leaving hazy memories in its place, and they do not fill her with comfort.

There was a - a map. That was it. Something about a map, and stalhrim, and a blacksmith. She had been sent to fetch it - _yes_ \- and what she had thought had been a routine stealth job had turned into - this. Expertly bound and at the mercy of - someone, whoever he was.

He hadn't killed her yet. This was encouraging. However, it also meant he obviously wanted information, and would probably have various creatively encouraging methods at his disposal to ensure he got it. This was less so.

His earlier words drift muzzily through her mind. _My_ ship… _my_ crew…

Realisation twists her stomach into nauseating knots. What little she knows of the Dominion Navy leads her to assume that one of its captains would not be known for mercy. Then again, what Thalmor was?

_Don't show fear. That's the most important thing._

She allows the gag to drop from her mouth, but remains silent.

When her captor speaks, his voice betrays no hint of emotion; he sounds almost bored. Imani is liking this situation less and less. He must be angry, surely. She wishes he would show it. Angry people make mistakes.

'Do you know who I am, Breton?'

She licks her dry lips and wills confidence into her voice that she does not feel.

'I can guess. You're the captain of this little boat, right?'

'Quite so. For the record, the correct terminology would be "ship", and she is hardly little, but I am not particularly attached to such things. And who might you be, Breton?'

Imani maintains her obstinate silence.

'Dear me,' he observes mildly, a hint of humour in his voice, 'If you can't even answer the simplest of questions like that, we're not going to get on very well at all, are we? I should so hate for us to get off on the wrong foot. Allow me to rephrase.'

Two steps and he is behind her, a gloved hand swiftly closing over her throat with just enough pressure for her breath to wheeze in her throat.

He bends towards her, his next words a hiss of concentrated, controlled fury hot against her ear.

'You will tell me your name, Breton bitch, or I promise you, I will beat it out of you.'

His grip tightens, a pitiful choking sound escaping her throat as she feels her pulse hammering heavy in her temples, panic rising in her gut as she pulls uselessly at her bonds once more.

He lets go, snatching his hand away as suddenly as he'd applied it, leaving her coughing and panting desperately.

'Your name.'

'F...fuck you.'

He laughs grimly.

'Endearing, and so unoriginal.'

His grip is painful this time from the start, fingers digging bruisingly into her neck and she feels her face redden, beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead as her lungs desperately, hopelessly clamour for air.

Her ears are ringing when he lets go.

'Again. Your name.'

_Not again._

'I- Imani,' she chokes out, tears dampening the blindfold. It's just a name, she tells herself. He can't do anything with that.

'There now.' His voice has returned to its previous silky tones as if nothing had happened; it is soothing, almost, and the contrast terrifies her. 'That wasn't so hard, was it?' A single finger trails over her jawline. 'And what brings you to me today, little Imani?'

She whimpers. She cannot tell him; she just cannot.

'I... wanted to see what the inside of an Altmeri navy vessel looked like.'

He chuckles, a mirthless, snide little sound.

'Is that so? I'm afraid I don't believe that to be your only reason. The truth, please.'

She flinches from a pain that never comes - not even as her silence stretches on. Somehow, the wait is worse, and he knows this full well. His patience is rewarded; her shriek of pain and shock when he does backhand her, hard, across the cheek delights him. He almost doesn't want her to break.

He forces his voice to remain neutral.

'And now?'

Her jaw sets.

'I came to steal your sweetrolls.'

Another slap, this time across the other cheek, followed by a brutal grasp on her hair pulling her head back.

‘I can play this game all day, Breton, not that I believe I shall need to.'

She will break, just as surely as his composure, which is cracking already. The low growl in his voice is not lost on Imani. It worries her that this new development does not concern her overmuch.

'Oh?' Her voice is strained from the awkward angle of her neck, but the challenge in it is unmistakable. 'Why's that? Think you can hit me hard enough?'

Ah, that fight. So tantalising.

'Who said anything about _hitting,_ ' and Imani is aware of movement at her ankles, a sudden loss of constraint, and while she cannot move her feet independently of each other, they are no longer bound to the chair.

She contemplates kicking, decides against it as he continues.

'There are other methods. You must really believe I lack imagination if you thought my repertoire would be limited to something as unrefined as _hitting_ you.'

He drags her away from the chair, her bound feet trailing uselessly across the boards, and before she can react her back makes sharp contact with the wall and her arms have been wrenched above her head and secured there. She winces. He is, unsurprisingly, not gentle.

Neither is he gentle as he strips her of her armour, leaving her shivering and vulnerable in her smallclothes.

The hands that run over the gooseflesh of her bare sides are, however, almost tender. She curses her treacherous body, the needy ache beginning to throb unwelcomingly between her legs, the anticipation, that awful weak part of her that no longer wants to escape.

Why, _why_ , did she enjoy this so?

'No,' Imani protests weakly as her smallclothes are pulled down over her thighs, slowly, too slowly. It feels even more unconvincing to her than it sounds.

He has to bite back a moan as he trails a palm up her bare leg from ankle to inner thigh, the scent of her arousal going straight to his cock. She attempts half-heartedly to clamp her legs together, but a swift slap to her inner thigh dispels even those tiny sparks of fight.

'Someone enjoys pain, I see,' he observes through a smirk as he adjusts the ropes around her ankles. 'No wonder you didn't tell me anything. I wonder, however, how much you enjoy the absence of pleasure.'

In truth, he does not want that. He wants to bury his face in those dark curls so temptingly close to his face, to dig his fingers into the flesh of that perfect backside and pull her closer to him, to taste her coming undone on his tongue, to lap up every last drop, to -

He mentally shakes himself. Patience, he chides himself. All in time.

Instead, he stands and observes her for a moment - the dampness of the blindfold, the way errant tendrils of hair have escaped their binds and are now plastered to her forehead with sweat, the way she shivers in fear and the chill.

The wood of the ship creaks as a particularly large wave rolls beneath her, and Ancarion smiles as Imani stiffens in fear.

'Nervous, little one?' He strokes a hand down her side again in what she is sure is a mockery of comfort. 'You do seem a little ill-at-ease, but there really is no need to be. You tell me why you're here, and I let you go.'

Despite his earlier words, Imani is expecting pain, and she will tell herself later as she attempts to drown her memories in mead that that was the explanation for her unrestrained cry as two gentle fingers stroke across her sex.

Certainly not _want_. She certainly does not find this _arousing._

She can lie to anyone but herself.

She forces herself to stay still as he repeats the same motion once more, a little harder, and she bites back a moan as he finds her clit and rests motionless upon it. She will not move. She will not show any emotion. And she certainly will not beg.

Once again, the rational part of her mind curses the weakness that makes her want to.

The hem of his robes tickles her shins as he leans forward to murmur against her ear.

'You feel wonderful, little human. I wonder what you might taste like.'

There is a genteel wet sort of sound that Imani knows could be nothing other than his lips sucking the evidence of her absolutely-not-arousal from his finger, and Daedra take her if it isn't one of the most erotic things she has heard.

'Divine. I thought you might. I do so hope you will tell me what I wish to know. I would much rather get to the reward. So selfish of me, i know, but-’ his finger returns to dip teasingly between her folds and she _squeaks_ , damn you Imani why did you have to _squeak_ , and he chuckles in a self-assured sort of way and allows his fingers to continue his sentence for him.

 

\--

 

Imani hates him.

It is a simple assertion and never has there been a truer one. She _does not want this_. Why, then, is she not doing all she can to stop it? Fighting back, somehow, as ineffective as it would be. Snarling, spitting, cursing, enraging him, pushing him to the brink of his temper until he turns back to pain, pain is so _simple_ , pain won't leave her feeling disgusted, violated, complicit. Pain makes her a victim, him an aggressor, draws neat little lines between the two of them and demarcates their roles. Pain won't leave her shuddering and breathless, hanging slack against her bonds and _surrendering_ to his touch, _welcoming_ it even.

Pain won't leave her guiltily replaying the scene in her memory those nights she wished she wasn't alone.

But this? This is cruel and calculated and agonisingly effective. With each careful stroke he wrenches a little more of her control from her, and she bites back tears at how easily she relinquishes it. Her mind is utterly powerless, overcome by the scent of leather and her own arousal and those awful whimpered moans that have to be from someone else, not her, surely, she would never sound so _pathetic,_ would never break like this…

He is going to make her come, she realises with a sense of unhappy inevitability. Her body will betray her and those cursed fingers currently invading her far-too-willing cunt will airily relieve her of the final pitiful remnants of self-control she has left and he will have won.

She is wrong.

He smiles to himself as her desperately stifled moans become less and less stifled, her head thrown back in a picture of ecstasy, her lips parted and face flushed, she is clenching hot around his fingers and she is close, so close, and…

He stops, removes his fingers with no warning, takes a step back and she _sobs_ , oh such a responsive little thing you are, if I tell you my name would you scream it for me, but no, _patience_.

“Why are you here, Imani?”

She shakes her head. A tiny ember of fight glows briefly in the murkiest depths of her mind and tells her that no, she is not going to tell the Thalmor anything just because they tie her up and finger her a bit, she has had better attentions from better people and she is not going to be so _weak_ as to give in to something as mundane as sex.

“Very well.” He is unconcerned.

The tiny ember flickers out sadly as he picks up where he left off, and within moments she is back where she was too, breathless and needy and whimpering and teetering on that same brink and once again he stops, cruelly, just as she is on the point of falling…

“Why are you here, Imani?”

And again, and again, she loses count and it might have been hours or mere minutes, her reality reduced to unfulfilled promises of mindshattering pleasure and that same damned question, repeated again, and again, _why are you here, Imani, why are you here,_ and she realises with chilling clarity that he _has_ won after all.

She is going to tell him, and she will not be able to stop.

“You have a map,” she hears herself sob, the words tumbling unchecked from her mouth as his hand is once more pulled away. “Stalhrim. I came for it. The Skaal - they want it back.”

“Is that so?” His voice is a silky purr against her ear. “Well, isn't that interesting? Thank you. You deserve something in return, I think.”

Imani has abandoned herself. She has nothing more to lose, now, and she allows herself to feel nothing, suppresses the guilt and shame she knows will come, especially when she feels warm hands on her hips and the soft creaking of leather as he gets to his knees…

 _Surely not._ Not _this_.

“I have been waiting for this moment, little human,” he murmurs against her abdomen. “Forgive me if I… Savour it a little.”

He kisses a warm trail down from her navel, closing his eyes in bliss as he breathes in musk, he can still taste her on his lips from earlier and he _wants,_ badly, but he can be patient. He feels strong muscles twitching under his fingers, her breathing heavy and desperate. Patient as she has been.

He looks up at her, almost worshipful, because there is something that few of his compatriots would understand; being on your knees before a beautiful woman did not have to be submission. And gods, she _is_ beautiful, lost in a world of his making, blinded by her desire for a mer she hasn't seen, bruises lacing her throat and arousal glinting wet on her thighs and…

His hands move to her backside and he kneads it, almost tenderly, before he snaps, his grip borders on feral and he presses his mouth to her with a growl.

She moans in defeat. She can do nothing else. He is too good, sinfully so, as he laps at her and he is moaning deeply against her too and she can _feel_ it, she realises in dim surprise that he wanted this as much as her body did and it _shows_.

“Gods,” he growls against her, “No mere human should be allowed to taste like you do,” and he pulls her closer to him and closes his lips around her swollen clit. She cries out as he sucks at it, feeling her orgasm build and this time he is showing no signs of stopping, his lips and tongue wrenching shamefully wanton little noises from her throat and she realises she is begging him.

Then he slides two fingers deep inside her, and the world shatters around her.

It leaves her breathless, boneless, incapable of anything but twitching in long-denied pleasure as he carefully withdraws his fingers and slowly, almost lovingly, begins to lick her clean as he fumbles one-handed with his belt buckle.

Imani weakly berates herself for being perfectly happy to return the favour, but it seems she will not need to. It is only moments before he gives an unmistakable groan as he buries his tongue inside her, one hand wrapped protectively around her waist, and he kisses her almost tenderly before getting shakily to his feet.

The next thing she knows, dexterous fingers are working at the knots that kept her bound and she is free.

He pulls off her blindfold, chuckling as she looks around her, blinking, disoriented, wrong-footed.

He gestures to the corner.

"Your clothes are there. Put them on."

He watches as she fumbles to do so, stealing distracted glances at him, taking in his face for the first time. Sharp Altmeri lines, softened by a slight flush and a hint of a smirk. Robes impeccably smoothed, fair hair less so. But she has little time to sate her curiosity; the minute she's dressed, he's at her side, grasping her by the elbow, pushing her through the door in front of him, up onto the deck. She blinks in the winter sunshine, the world a harsh and unyielding assault on her vision, the curious glances of her captor's crew burning into her, and she keeps her eyes fixed on the boards beneath her feet.

When they reach the gangplank, he turns her to face him, tucks her hair behind her ear, and bends to whisper with the softest hint of a smile:

"Better luck next time, little human."

And then he turns on his heel, barking out orders, and Imani makes her careful way back to shore.

She never forgets a face.


End file.
